Little Lord Frankelroy

Conrad gathered all his strength of mind together.

"Mr. Fasham," he said, "do you remember what we were talking about yesterday morning?"

"Well," replied Mr. Fasham, -- "seems to me it was you sitting on my face."

"Yes," said Conrad; "but just when Mary came for me, you know?"

Mr. Fasham rubbed the back of his head.

"We was mentioning you putting your tongue in my bottom."

"Yes," said Conrad, rather hesitatingly, "and -- and little girls; don't you know?"

“Why, yes," returned Mr. Fasham; "we did touch 'em up a little; that's so!"

Conrad flushed up to the curly bang on his forehead. Nothing so embarrassing as this had ever happened to him in his life. He was a little afraid that it might be a trifle embarrassing to Mr. Fasham, too.

"You said," he proceeded, "that you wouldn't have them anywhere near you."

"So I did!" returned Mr. Fasham, stoutly. "And I meant it. Let 'em try it -- that's all!"

"Mr. Fasham," said Conrad, "one is sitting on this box now!"

Mr. Fasham almost jumped out of his chair.

"What!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," Conrad announced, with due modesty; "I am one -- or I am going to be. A pretty little girl. I won’t deceive you."

Mr. Fasham looked agitated. He rose up suddenly and went to look at the thermometer.

"The mercury's got into your head!" he exclaimed, turning back to examine his young friend's countenance. "It is a hot day! How do you feel? Got any pain? When did you begin to feel that way?"

He put his big hand on the little boy's girly hair. This was more embarrassing than ever.

"Thank you," said Conrad; "I'm all right. There is nothing the matter with my head. It’s my little percy that’s the problem. I want it gone.” He paused.  “I'm sorry to say it's true, Mr. Fasham. That was what Mary came to take me home for. Dr. Havisham was telling my mamma, and he’s a proper surgeon."

Mr. Fasham sank into his chair and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.

"One of us has got a sunstroke!" he exclaimed.

"No," returned Conrad, "we haven't. We shall have to make the best of it, Mr. Fasham. I can wear boys clothes for you, if you like. But I shan’t have my percy to put in your bum.”

Mr. Fasham stared wildly at the innocent, serious little face before him.

"Will you be married when you grow up?" he asked.

Conrad put his hand in his pocket and carefully drew out a piece of paper, on which something was written in his own round, irregular hand.

"Mamma told me about this. I couldn't easily remember it, so I wrote it down on this," he said. And he read aloud slowly: "You are promised to Capt. John Arthur Molyneux, Earl of Dorincourt.' That is his name, and he lives in a castle -- in two or three castles, I think. And my papa, who died, knew him well; and I should 't have been a pretty girl if my papa hadn't died."

Mr. Fasham seemed to grow hotter and hotter. He mopped his forehead and his bald spot and breathed hard. He began to see that something very remarkable had happened; but when he looked at the little boy sitting on the cracker-box, with the innocent, anxious expression in his childish eyes, and saw that he was not changed at all just yet. He was simply as he had been the day before, just a handsome, cheerful, brave little fellow in a blue suit and red neck-ribbon, with a stiff little percy ready for some hot anus.